


Primeval

by Amelia_Clark



Series: 30 Day Cheesy Trope Challenge [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: 1880s evening wear, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Anal Sex, Bottom Dean, Dean's such an ingenue in this, I do what I want, Intercrural Sex, Internalized Homophobia, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Marriage of Convenience, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Past Abuse, cattle baron Charlie, historically accurate lube, paleontologist Castiel, viscount Dean, yeah you heard me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-09
Updated: 2015-06-09
Packaged: 2018-02-24 18:29:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 9,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2591756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amelia_Clark/pseuds/Amelia_Clark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For years Viscount Winchester had followed the career of the American paleontologist Castiel Novak with envy, wishing his duties to his father's estate allowed him the freedom to pursue his scientific interests. This was why he was so excited to attend this lecture, of course: science. It had nothing to do with the photographs of Novak he'd seen, nothing to do with that jaw, that mouth, those penetrating eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **#2: Idol/Fan**  
>  All the usual possibilities for this trope--actor, rock star--were uninspiring (and I'm already doing writer/fan)...and then my brain tosses out "19th-century paleontologist!" and this happened.
> 
> And I love it.

The lecture hall at the Royal Geological Society was crowded, and Viscount Winchester's hopes of obtaining a seat up front were dashed immediately. "At least we're tall, Dean," Lord Sam said. "We'll still have a better view of Professor Novak than many."

"True," Dean said to his brother, but he remained disgruntled. He'd worn his best morning attire, the cravat lightly flecked with a green that matched his eyes, and while he knew it was the height of vanity, he'd wanted to be seen, not by the gathering at large so much as Prof. Castiel Novak himself. For years he'd followed the career of the American paleontologist with envy, wishing his duties to his father's estate allowed him the freedom to pursue his scientific interests. This was why he was so excited to attend this lecture, of course: science. It had nothing to do with the photographs of Novak he'd seen, nothing to do with that jaw, that mouth, those penetrating eyes.

D--n, he tried not to have these thoughts in public. Dean knew his attraction to men was improper, to say nothing of illegal; he'd been thrashed by his father for a youthful transgression, and the memory lingered. He was luckier than some, perhaps, in that he also found women alluring; he would marry, enjoy fathering an heir, and when he found himself in the grip of unnatural desires, well, there were discreet establishments that catered to that sort of thing.

Right now, however, his mind was occupied with other matters: namely, Novak's recent discoveries in the wilds of Wyoming, great flying reptiles like dragons made real, sleek toothy leviathans far from any modern ocean. These wonders were sufficient to distract him as they finally located seats and settled in; but when Novak was introduced and began his lecture in a low, rough voice, Dean knew he was in for a trying hour.

Because as handsome as Novak was in photographs, they did him no justice. He, too, was tall, simply but impeccably dressed, his skin golden from his days in the sun digging fossils. And those eyes, which were bewitching in mere black and white, were in fact a devastating blue, clear and bright even from a distance. Dean wanted to drown in those eyes. He wanted those lush lips on his own. He wanted things he didn't even understand, and it was impossible to concentrate on the substance of Novak's talk. 

But applause signaled the end of the ordeal, and he and Sammy were caught up in the inevitable polite chit-chat of the throng. Dean was annoyed to find himself talking to Baron Crowley; the sardonic little Scot was king of London's most notorious gambling hells, and Dean still owed him for a disastrous card game a month ago. "A diverting lecture, Lord Winchester," the baron purred, standing rather closer than Dean would like. "You dabble in fossil collecting, don't you?"

"Yes. Nothing so grand as dinosaurs, of course, merely shells and sea creatures. But I've a few treasured specimens." Dean's eyes shifted away while he looked for a way out of the conversation before money was alluded to, and was suddenly struck dumb; Novak was not far away, chatting with a marquess or two, but he was looking straight at Dean. Their eyes locked for what felt like hours, and it took everything Dean had to break the gaze.

When he turned back at Crowley, he was smirking, one eyebrow raised in lewd suggestion. "I don't suppose you'd like to meet the professor, my lord," he said. "We are slightly acquainted, and you and he seem to have...common interests."

Dean flushed. The last thing he needed was Crowley's having another hold on him. "We do share a scientific bent," he said rather too loudly. "If you could make the introduction, I would of course be grateful for the opportunity to further discuss natural history."

"Of course, my lord," said Crowley, and before Dean knew it the crowd had parted and Novak was right in front of him, Crowley saying something about Dean's keen appetite for scientific inquiry, and Dean was shaking Novak's hand and trying unsuccessfully not to think about kissing him.

"It's always a joy to meet a fellow fossil-hunter," Novak was saying. "Have your investigations been limited to England?"

"Yes, unfortunately," Dean managed to say. "We've a house in Dorset where I've found some large ammonites. Nothing compared to your work, of course, but my own humble contribution to the field."

"Dorset is on the coast, correct? I'm sure the climate is much more salubrious than my usual mountain haunts. Perhaps I might visit while I'm here abroad? Ammonites may not be exciting, but I do find them quite beautiful."

"Please do!" said Dean. "I'd very much enjoy playing host to such an illustrious scientist." _And such a beautiful one,_ his treacherous mind added.

They made tentative plans for the following week, and Novak extended his hand again. Happy for an excuse to touch him, Dean took it, and was shocked when Novak's fingers extended against his palm, slipping under the edge of his shirt cuff and stroking the inside of Dean's wrist in an undeniable caress. "Until next week, my lord," he purred, and left Dean there, dizzy and confused and more aroused than he'd ever been in his life.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean lowered himself into the hot water with a groan. He'd thought himself accustomed to clambering about the Dorset cliffs—but his time in town must have softened him, because keeping up with Novak had proved exhausting. The man clearly spent a great deal of his time outside in rough country; he'd walked with the calm assurance of an animal, never putting a foot wrong while Dean picked carefully over the rocks behind him. And as if the activity didn't already render him breathless, Novak had shed his coat almost immediately and rolled up his shirtsleeves, so Dean's attention drifted between the land around them and the tanned expanse of Novak's forearms, the way his trousers hugged his arse.

He'd tried and failed to persuade Sammy to come with them to the Dorset estate; his brother was too caught up in courting Lord Richardson’s eldest daughter, Amelia, to be interested in seashells, ancient or not. So instead, it was just the two of them, and the few servants it took to keep up the house. Dean was equal parts elated and terrified.

While he'd expected, hoped, that Novak would touch him again—that surreptitious caress at the lecture still simmered in Dean's veins—the scientist had kept a respectable distance between them, only once offering a hand when Dean tripped and then holding on no more than simple assistance required. Instead, he'd initiated a different type of intimacy; when Dean had addressed him as "Professor Novak," he'd laughed and said, "Please, call me by my Christian name. Castiel."

It was a startling request. Sammy used his first name, but even his closest friends from Cambridge called him "Winchester" (or, to his distaste, "Winnie"). Indeed, the married couples Dean knew tended to refer to each other as "my lord" and "my lady" in company, though he'd no idea what names they used in the privacy of the marital bed. Apparently things were different across the Atlantic. He cleared his throat, nodded. "Very well...Castiel."

"And yours?" Novak—Castiel—asked.

"Oh, no one uses it except my brother," Dean said.

Castiel narrowed his eyes and tilted his head, a curiously doglike gesture that was nonetheless adorable. "Then why do you have it?"

That's when Dean stumbled. Once he recovered his footing with Castiel's help, he shrugged. "I suppose I don't know. I've never been asked that question."

"Well," said Castiel, "I'm asking. I'm not going to call you 'my lord.' My tolerance for British society ends at flattering nobility."

"You could call me 'Winchester,'" said Dean, heart pounding, no doubt from the exercise.

"No," Castiel said. He stopped walking and turned to face Dean, staring him down. "I could call you a lot of things, certainly, but I would very much like to call you by your Christian name."

D—n, those eyes, they stripped Dean naked and liked what they saw. "Dean," he blurted. "It's Dean."

"Hello, Dean," said Castiel, and Dean wanted to hear it again, wanted to hear that rough voice gasping it into his ear. He wanted to lick the hollow of Castiel's throat where it showed above his collar. He wanted Castiel to push him down onto the ground and take him right there.

Instead, he nodded. "Hello," he said.

Later, in the bath, Dean closed his eyes and played it over and over again—ridiculous that one syllable could feel so much like a kiss, that it could be so obviously intended as such. How did Castiel manage it? Why wasn't he afraid, as Dean was, of the consequences of giving in to their shared desires?

Warm and safe in the tub, Dean let his mind drift, allowed himself to imagine Castiel in the room with him, penetrating eyes raking down Dean's nude body, a smile spreading across his face (as it had when Dean told him his name). Castiel would stand by the tub, watching him, his own coat already gone; he'd slide the braces off his shoulders, unbutton his shirt, tug it out of his waistband.

Dean's hand wandered to his cock, stiff under the water, and wrapped around it. He worked it slowly up and down, trying not to chafe, and thought of Castiel beneath his clothes—did that bronzed skin spread across his chest, down his back? Or was his torso pale without his shirt? Would his stomach be taut against Dean's hands, against—oh God—his mouth?

He frigged himself more fervently, pictured Castiel helping him out of the bath, touching his wet skin all over. Dean would undo Castiel's trousers, take out his cock; Castiel would be hard and aching in his grip, and he'd take Dean in hand in turn. They'd kiss as they drove each other towards climax, mouths moving to jaws, to necks—Dean came, groaning, spunk dissolving into the water. If only it was so simple to release his infatuation.

Or his shame.


	3. Chapter 3

"Dean!" called Castiel excitedly from his crouch on the wet shale. "Come see this! Bring the hammer and chisel."

"I'm almost there," Dean muttered, peering down at the salt scum beneath his bespoke boots with distaste. He was lagging back even more today, half from stiff muscles, half from the irrational fear that Castiel would know what he'd done thinking of him the previous night. Far from slaking his lust, that furtive self-pleasure had only made the American more attractive; it was all Dean could do to tear his eyes away from Castiel's muscular thighs to look down at the beach.

The soft rock of the seashore was pockmarked with fossils—the smooth impressions of ancient bivalves, the elaborate coils of ammonites—and it was unclear what had so excited Castiel. "What do you see?" Dean asked at last, and gasped when Castiel grabbed his hand.

Castiel ran Dean's fingers slowly along a small ridge in the shale, only a few inches long. "Do you feel that, Dean? It's the spine of an ichthyosaur. Four, no, five vertebrae. I wonder if there's more of the skeleton nearby?"

But neither of them moved to search further, and Castiel did not release his grip on Dean; rather, he stopped guiding Dean's hand along the bones and stroked the back of it, over his knuckles, up towards his wrist. Dean held his breath.

"Dean," Castiel said quietly, slipping his fingers under his cuff and laying them gently over his quickening pulse. "Dean, I—"

Dean turned his head to find Castiel staring at him, those intense blue eyes so close; his gaze flickered down to Castiel's mouth, and he licked his own lips unconsciously. "Do you need the hammer?" he stammered in the moment before he found himself being kissed.

It was by no means an indecent kiss, simply a fervent press of Castiel's mouth against his own, there and gone in an instant. Nonetheless, Dean was too shocked to speak afterwards. 

But only for a moment. He realized, even through the fear, that they were truly alone here, witnessed only by sea, sky, and creatures long dead. He had wanted Castiel to kiss him since they met; now that it had happened he wanted it even more. "Please," he said to Castiel, "do that again."

Smiling slightly, Castiel did. This time he lingered, took Dean's lower lip between his own, nudged Dean's mouth open with his tongue. Dean kissed him back in silent awe.

Castiel moved his mouth across Dean's jaw to his ear. "Come to my room tonight," he said. When Dean nodded, shakily, Castiel dropped a sound kiss on his cheek and pulled back. "Good. I would like the hammer, though. I want to attempt the removal of one of these vertebrae." 

*******

Late that evening, Castiel sat at the unfamiliar desk in his room, sipping a brandy and staring at the petrified bone he'd pried out of the Dorset coast that morning. Usually he'd have spent the past hours in a scientific fervor, measuring, drawing, jotting down the details of his find—instead, his mind was otherwise occupied. Jurassic sea monsters, despite their majesty, simply could not compete with the kisses he'd shared earlier with Dean Winchester.

He wondered if his host would really come to him tonight. Frankly, he'd be shocked if Dean did appear; but then he'd been shocked at his own behavior since the moment they met. No, before that—from the moment he saw Dean in the lecture hall.

Castiel was not usually so reckless. He'd a career to think of, a marriageable sister who hardly needed her prospects ruined by rumors her brother was a sodomite—even one with so little sodomy to his credit.

Downing the rest of his brandy too quickly, Castiel cursed Dean Winchester and his lovely eyes and Greek-ideal cheekbones and that impossible mouth that had been so yielding against his own. He should undress for bed, bring himself to quiet orgasm, and pretend on the morrow that nothing had occurred. That was the prudent course of action, and he was a man of science: rational and precise.

He'd shed collar and cuffs when he heard the halting knock at his door.

******

Dean was still in his evening clothes under an emerald smoking jacket, its velvet intensifying the green of his eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, closed it, gaze riveted to the hollow of Castiel's throat where he'd begun unbuttoning his shirt. "Come in, Lord Winchester," said Castiel, affecting a confidence he did not feel.

"Yes, thank you," Dean mumbled with the instinctual manners of his class. The door was hardly shut behind him before he was kissing Castiel again, all trace of timidity vanished—was he, too, merely feigning certainty? His tongue tasted strongly of drink, and Castiel suspected Dutch courage was at work.

"Dean," he said, wrenching his mouth away, "You're here, I didn't think you would be." His hands moved restlessly over the jacket's fine fabric, tracing the lithe frame beneath.

"Neither did I," said Dean. "I—I have not done this before, not with a man," he added hastily, "I'm no maiden. Please, Castiel, I want you to touch me." 

Castiel sighed. "Gladly."

The door was closer than the bed, and Castiel pushed Dean against it, fingers deftly unfastening Dean's jacket and loosening his tie. Velvet, silk, linen—he peeled them off, dropped them at their feet, until Dean stood before him bare to the waist, a thin trail of hair disappearing into his trousers. Muttering an oath, Castiel ran his hands across the planes of Dean's torso, Dean's chest shuddering with each breath. "Please," Dean kept saying, "please," as he fumbled with Castiel's buttons in turn.

They were on the bed, and Castiel could not remember moving his feet, as if he'd simply willed them there; his own shirt was gone now, Dean's hands tight on his shoulder blades while they kissed. Then one of those hands was at the fall of Castiel's trousers, tugging them open; then Dean's hand was inside, around his cock, and Castiel groaned into his neck. "Oh God, Dean, yes," he said, words lost in Dean's skin.

"Please," Dean moaned again, arching his back, and Castiel worked Dean's pants undone just enough, matching him stroke for stroke. Dean panted into his mouth.

"Wait," said Castiel, and lifted himself to shed the rest of his clothes, "off, take everything off." 

When he lowered himself over Dean again, there was nothing but skin between them, burning wherever it touched; Dean bent both knees to his chest and pushed his thighs tightly together so Castiel could slide his cock between them.

Castiel brushed the pad of his thumb over Dean's lush lower lip as he thrust, as his world narrowed to the warmth of Dean's body surrounding him, the shocked pleasure on Dean's face. Castiel was coming before he knew it, spilling hot between Dean's thighs; Dean bit down on Castiel's thumb when he followed, and his legs fell apart as Castiel collapsed over him.

They lay there, breath steadying, until the stickiness between them became unpleasant and Castiel went to the washstand, bringing back a wet cloth for Dean. "Will the servants talk if you stay?" he asked.

Dean shook his head. "Among themselves, perhaps. But there aren't many, we don't use this house often."

"Good," said Castiel, stretching out next to him. "Then stay."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been super fun researching this fic! Naming conventions of British nobility, Victorian fashion, and of course fossil-hunting. The ichthyosaur fossil Castiel discovers here was [actually found](http://blog.everythingdinosaur.co.uk/blog/_archives/2014/04/17/ichthyosaur-fossil-discovered-at-lyme-regis.html) at Lyme Regis last April. (N.B. Do not take a hammer and chisel to the Dorset coast. Nineteenth-century scientists were fairly unconcerned about the ecological damage they inflicted on the landscape.)


	4. Chapter 4

Dean woke at dawn, his eyes fluttering open on the welcome tableau of Castiel lying naked beside him. With bated breath, Dean reached out to touch the ridge of Castiel's spine, counting each vertebra as he'd done with the fossil on the beach the previous day. Unlike the wave-swept shale, Castiel's skin was warm with sleep, and he twitched his shoulder as Dean continued to stroke down his back to the cleft of his arse. 

Moving closer, Dean pressed the length of his body against Castiel's, his cock rising to greet the swell of his buttocks and rest between them as if it belonged there. 

"Good morning," rumbled Castiel. "I take it you do not regret the events of last evening."

"Far from it," said Dean, kissing the back of his neck. “I would be delighted to repeat them, in fact.”

"Mmm, as would I." Castiel groped for Dean's hand and guided it between his legs to his own cockstand. "And you say you've never done such things before? I was under the impression that English boarding schools were hotbeds of vice."

Dean tried to laugh, but the sound died in his throat. "For some, indeed, but not for me. I had been…discouraged."

Castiel thrust lazily into Dean’s hand. “What do you mean by that?”

“Just so. It was indicated to me that gentlemen did not pay each other such attentions, and so I did not.” Dean did not wish to talk of this, not now that he’d at last managed to put the incident aside. Not now that he was drowsy and warm with Castiel beneath the counterpane.

But Castiel persisted. “You’re being rather English, Dean, speaking around what you want to say. You were discouraged, it was indicated: by whom, may I ask? How?"

Nothing for it, then. Dean sighed. "My father. I was fourteen; he discovered me kissing a stableboy, and I was disciplined.” Knowing Castiel would protest the further circumlocution, he bit his lip and told the truth: “He whipped me with a riding crop. I bled for an hour.”

Castiel turned in Dean’s arms and kissed him. “The other boy, what was his name?” 

“Robin.” Dean fell silent in turn, remembering. Robin had been two years older, flaxen-haired, with an easy smile and a knack for soothing an anxious horse with only his voice. They’d kissed a few times that summer before the duke happened by the stables at the wrong time; Dean could still recall that instant, the giddy rush in his stomach turning to icy fear.

“Do you know what happened to him?” asked Castiel.

“No. Father boxed his ears and sent him packing. I never saw him again.”

“And you had not touched another man carnally since."

"Until last night, no."

Smiling, Castiel ran a hand down Dean's side and took hold of his cock. "You have years of deprivation to redress, then."

*******

They'd just begun to entertain the notion of quitting the bedchamber when the crack of thunder rendered the prospect of a seashore ramble less than appealing. Few things seemed as appealing to Castiel at the moment as Dean, replete with lust, his bowed legs tangled in the linen sheets. Castiel could not stop kissing him, everywhere: the hollow of his throat, the jut of his hipbone, the freckles that brought to mind not hard labor under the noonday sun, but leisurely rides over land long tamed.

Aristocracy was repugnant to Castiel's democratic sensibilities, but there was no denying Dean wore his rank well.

Once the rain began, Dean rang for a servant. If the woman who appeared at the door was surprised to find Dean in Castiel's room, wearing only his smoking jacket while Castiel reclined in bed, she showed no sign of it. Dean asked that they be brought breakfast, and she bobbed a curtsy when she departed.

Dean turned to him, eyebrow raised. "She acts as if this has happened before."

"It's her job to do so," said Castiel. "Come back to bed."

Doffing his jacket, Dean obliged, and then Castiel was kissing him again, hands wandering. He could have kept doing so indefinitely had Dean not broken away, shifted out of his embrace. "We should wait until after breakfast, or risk interruption," he said.

"How shall we pass the time?" It seemed such a waste not to be touching him, Castiel thought with irritation, and rested his hand lightly on Dean's upper arm.

Dean allowed it to remain. "Tell me about your family," he said. "You have me at a disadvantage where that is concerned."

But for Anna, Castiel hadn't thought about his family in months. He tried not to think of them at all, as they had sworn never to think of him.

"My father beat me too," he said at last. Dean's jaw clenched, but he said nothing. "Not for loving men," Castiel continued, "though I'm sure he would have had I ever been caught. For myriad other infractions against God, however. Or at least his version of God.” 

"He was a clergyman?" Dean ventured.

Castiel nodded, sighed. "An itinerant preacher of the fulminating stripe. I had several siblings, and he dragged us all over the territories saving souls. Ours, being nearest, received the most scrutiny, and we were punished when we rebelled.”

He was interrupted by a knocking at the door—not the polite tap that accompanied breakfast, but a quick flurry of thumps. Frowning, Dean disentangled his legs from Castiel's and pulled on his jacket again to answer.

The woman at the door (Castiel felt a pang of guilt at not knowing her name) carried no tray, her expression flustered. "Begging your pardon, Lord Winchester," she said to Dean in a stage whisper, "I have news of His Grace—your father."

Castiel watched Dean's face drain of color. "My father? What? Is he ill?" 

"No, my lord. He's _here."_


	5. Chapter 5

Dean felt cold and sick all over as he nodded to the maid and closed Castiel's door, a little too firmly for courtesy. Why would Father be here of all places—why _now?_

He needed to move, retrieve his clothing and flee to his own chamber before they were discovered in an obviously compromising position. Instead, he stood frozen, his jaw working with tension, until he felt a hand on his shoulder, and turned his head to see Castiel next to him, Dean's drawers draped over his arm.

"Thank you," he said numbly, clinging to the linen as if to a life raft. Castiel's touch had broken Dean's trance, and he swiftly gathered shirt, braces, waistcoat from the floor; there was still time, he assured himself, no cause for alarm, his room was but steps away. They would not be caught.

As Dean slowly opened the door to make his escape, an ominous pounding echoed through the corridor, and he found himself again fixed in place, staring down the hallway at the closed door of his empty room—and the scowling man knocking on it.

His father, the Duke of Lawrence. Who must have stormed upstairs with alacrity indeed. Who must have, somehow, suspected what he would find there.

Who was now staring back at Dean with absolute fury in his eyes.

"F-Father," he stammered, and stopped, because what could he possibly say? He’d been found standing in the doorway to another man's room, arms piled with garments, hair disheveled. The situation was unmistakable.

"So it is true," said the Duke, voice low with barely controlled wrath. "I had hoped that vulgar little Scot was telling tales, but it seems my eldest son has not lost his taste for unnatural lusts."

 _Crowley_. D—n, he must have sought compensation from the Duke for Dean's outstanding debts; and Dean well knew the baron dealt in rumor and insinuation as skillfully as he played a hand of cards. And Crowley had introduced Castiel to Dean, had seen the way they were drawn to each other, had known he could use the story to his own advantage. After all, gossip was most valuable when based in fact. 

Unable to summon a word in his defense, Dean shuffled his bare feet, lowered his eyes like a schoolboy caught with forbidden sweets. His first instinct was to throw himself on the Duke's mercy and beg for forgiveness, although he felt no remorse for the previous night, no flicker of regret. Why did his father still make him feel like a child? 

"You will go to your room and dress," said the Duke. "You will tell your paramour to leave my property, and we will meet in the drawing room downstairs to discuss your future." Not waiting for an answer—because no one ever told him _no_ —his father turned on his heel and stalked away.

Gentlemen did not swoon, and yet Dean's hands and face were numb, his vision blurring to blackness. He tried to take a step, and crumpled insensate to the floor.

*******

Dean awoke in bed, and for one beautiful moment he was certain he had dreamed his father's arrival, that he would find Castiel still lying beside him. Alas, no—Castiel was present, but dressed, hovering over him with worried mien. He brightened as Dean stirred. "You were unconscious for several minutes," he said, reaching out to touch Dean's cheek. "Have you had previous fainting spells?"

"I did not _faint,"_ Dean protested. "Young ladies faint."

"You succumbed to a temporary shock, then." Castiel's lip quirked in a half smile, and Dean came very near kissing it off of him. “I am sorry I allowed you to confront your father alone. I should have interceded on your behalf.”

Shaking his head, Dean said, “No, you’d have made things worse. Father would not take kindly to an American interfering in his family business.”

"Nor with his heir," Castiel said as he trailed a finger across Dean's jaw. "Must you speak to him?"

For a moment, Dean allowed himself to picture a different version of himself, one who would ignore his father's orders—or better yet, coolly inform the Duke that as Dean was of age, his proclivities were none of his father's concern. 

He would do neither, of course. He had never had the courage to disobey his father. "I have to," he whispered despairingly. "I'm sorry, I must. You can't stay."

"No, I imagine not. Better to leave under my own power than to be thrown out." Castiel sighed. "Do you think I could get a ride into town? It's two hours' walk, and still raining."

"Yes, of course, I'm sure the housekeeper can arrange something." Dean stood up, collected his clothes again. And still he lingered. "I'm so sorry, Castiel. I'm a coward."

“You’re going to go downstairs to speak to a man who frightens you,” Castiel said. “I do not call that cowardice.”

Though Dean was certain his father was growing impatient, he stole a moment to kiss Castiel properly and thoroughly at the door—one last act of defiance before the axe fell.

*******

The Duke was in the drawing room, glaring out the window at the inclement weather as if it had personally offended him. “I don’t appreciate being kept waiting,” he huffed when Dean entered the room. Dean mumbled an apology, which was acknowledged with a nod, and his father turned to face him.

“You are heir to a title,” the Duke said, “and thus your first duty, always, is to your family and our dependents. You are lucky indeed that Baron Crowley’s silence can be bought. Have you any idea the scandal this would make? Did you think of your position at all before giving in to this—this perversion?”

Dean could not answer—he felt strangled, as if a fist were lodged in his throat. Even breathing was an effort. He simply shook his head; no, he hadn’t thought of his position or his obligations. Only Castiel, only the strength of his arms, the sweetness of his mouth.

“I cannot by law disinherit you,” his father continued, “though that is truly what you deserve. I will offer you a choice, Dean. You will depart for the Continent today, relinquish all contact with your brother until after my death—or you will marry and produce an heir as soon as possible. Once our legacy is secured, I don’t give a damn what you do, but I will not have you sully the family name.”

Dean’s mind was made up at once; his brother was his closest friend, to break with him was unthinkable. And hadn’t the other been his plan all along? “I will find a wife,” he told his father, swallowing the tremble in his voice. “I will remember my duty to the family.”

Distantly, he heard the front door close, and knew that Castiel was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do not fear, little ones, I have a Cunning Plan.


	6. Chapter 6

A fortnight thence, Dean was lurking behind a potted palm in the Richardsons' ballroom when his newly-betrothed brother found him at last. "I've been searching for you for half an hour," Sam said, his face a characteristic moue of disapproval. "You promised Lady Joanna a dance and then disappeared. Aren't you meant to be wife-hunting, Dean? You're making rather a muck of it."

"Perhaps I don't care to marry Lady Joanna, Sam," Dean said. Joanna Harvelle was blonde and petite, the daughter of an earl who'd been in their father's set at Cambridge; both men had known her since they were in short pants. Dean's affection for her was that of an elder brother, teasing and indulgent by turns, and he'd idly considered her a potential bride since her debut—they were friends, after all, and she would make a fine duchess, witty and charming and beautiful.

Yet when she'd accepted his request for a waltz earlier, her smile had frightened him. Far from being sisterly, it was vulpine, almost predatory, and her eyes had a hunger in them that took him aback. Lady Joanna wanted him, he'd realized with a sick lurch in his gut; whether she'd more than vague notions of what consummating her desires would entail, she seemed eager to find out. 

And so he'd fled. He could not in good conscience marry a woman whose feelings for him went beyond mutual esteem. It would be a cruelty to do so, when he couldn’t stop thinking of Castiel, of his mouth on Dean’s neck, his hand on Dean’s cock. Lady Joanna deserved better than to share her marital bed with such a phantom.

"Don't marry her, then," said Sam, still frowning. "You've been unpardonably rude to her this evening, nevertheless."

"I know," sighed Dean. "I've behaved abominably. She's not too forlorn, I hope?"

"Forlorn? Hardly," Sam said with a snort. "She's angry with you, Dean. When I left them, she was telling Lady Amelia she'd sooner dance with the devil himself, that cloven hooves would do less damage to her slippers than your cloddish feet."

Dean laughed despite himself. "Good for her."

Sam didn't return his mirth. "Dean," he sighed, "you've been acting strangely ever since your return from Dorset. Something must have gone awry. You were meant to spend a week there with that American, Novak—dash it, I've forgotten his Christian name. Caleb? Clarence?"

"Castiel," Dean murmured, the syllables bittersweet on his tongue.

"Right. Then Father went hurrying after you, wouldn't explain why. You come slinking home early, suddenly determined to wed, when you've always said you wanted to wait until you were thirty at least. Novak's nowhere to be found. What happened, Dean?"

"I can't tell you that, Sammy. I'm sorry, but I can't. You wouldn't understand." Dean made as if to leave his hiding place for the throng, but Sam seized his shoulder and didn't let go. 

"I'm your brother, Dean. I'll understand, and if I don't I'll still listen. I know what Father's like, and I know what _you’re_ like when he’s forcing you to do something you don’t wish to do. Why is he compelling you to marry—why now? Please, Dean, if you won’t tell me everything, at least give me part of it.”

Dean scowled up at his colossus of a brother; Sam looked all concern, but his grip on Dean's arm was hardly gentle, and Dean knew he'd not accept further evasion. "Damnation, Sam, if you must know, I—I was guilty of an indiscretion. One that Father could not forgive."

Sam's face crinkled in bafflement. "Do I know the lady in question?"

Looking straight ahead, as if Sam's cravat was suddenly engrossing, Dean mumbled, "It was not with a lady."

"A tart, then. Why would Father care about that? God knows we've at least one sibling born on the wrong side of the sheets."

"No," said Dean, shaking his head, "neither lady nor tart. Sam, please, I can't say it out loud." He glanced up, eyes pleading, and so he saw the moment when Sam understood, when shock replaced confusion on his face.

"Oh," Sam said, sotto voce, “with, er, with Novak?” Dean nodded, and Sam let go of his shoulder. “And Father found out.”

"He offered me marriage or banishment, and I preferred the former."

Sam's expression turned stony. "Banishment, like the petty tyrant he is. Dean, I know you've always been the dutiful son, but marrying under duress—it's intolerable. Don't do this to yourself."

"He's our father, Sam. I'm his heir. I owe him the continuance of the family legacy."

"And what do you owe yourself?" asked Sam. "Or Novak, for that matter? Do you love him?"

Trust Sam to go to the heart of the matter, to the question that kept Dean awake at night. Though he was uncertain if what he felt was love, he knew his feelings for Castiel were more potent than mere lust, and the knowledge was terrifying. "It doesn't matter, Sam," he said. "What I think or feel or want—it's never mattered. I was born for the title, and so I have to live up to it." He cut off Sam's noise of protest with a raised hand and went on: "I'm doing this for you, too, you realize. If this were to get out, the scandal would taint you as well. You could lose your fiancée, be cut off from polite society. I couldn't have that on my conscience."

"So you'll do your duty, then. Obey Father, marry some poor girl, and be miserable."

"Nothing says I must be miserable," said Dean. "I was never going to make a love match like you--that's second-son territory. I'll marry a _rich_ girl and I daresay we'll get along tolerably well."

"Not Lady Joanna, Dean. She's fancied you for years, it would be unkind."

"Why do you think I'm hiding behind this goddamn plant?" Dean smiled almost halfway, which was more than he'd managed in weeks. "Come, I should dance with her. This isn't her fault."

"You're determined on this course, then. Marriage and a noble martyrdom."

"I am. It's for the best, Sam, you'll see."

When they rejoined their previous companions—Lady Joanna in lavender taffeta, Lady Amelia in aubergine velvet—the two ladies had been joined by a third, a striking woman in royal blue brocade, sapphires winking from her heaped-up russet hair. Lady Joanna furrowed her brow at Dean's approach and said acidly, "We'd given you up as lost, Lord Winchester, so good of you to return. Do you know Miss Middleton?"

The redhead flashed Dean a dazzling smile. "Lord Winchester, is it?" she said in an American accent. "Miss Celeste Middleton, of the Kansas City Middletons. I believe we've a friend in common."

"Oh?" said Dean politely, bending over the back of her hand. "And who might that be?"

"Professor Castiel Novak," Miss Middleton said. "He sends his warmest regards."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continuing my one-woman campaign to replace Sam's "bitchface" with "moue of disapproval."
> 
> Dress inspirations (modified for color and occasion): [Amelia](http://41.media.tumblr.com/707d4b04f96c8305047c1f32d0c6675a/tumblr_nil0l8KO471qcddvlo1_500.jpg), [Jo](http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/c/c9/Toulmouche_Love_Letter_Detail.jpg), [Charlie](https://www.vintagetextile.com/images/Graphics/Worthx.jpg)


	7. Chapter 7

As Lady Joanna was no longer inclined to dance with him, Dean stammered an invitation to Miss Middleton; she accepted with a smirk and they took a turn around the floor. She was an admirable dancer, he thought, though she moved with a slight tension, as if she did not care to be led. Heart battering his ribs, he steered them gently away from the crowd and bent to whisper in her ear: "You are acquainted with Professor Novak? When did you last speak with him?"

Miss Middleton smiled and stood up on tiptoe, her voice no more than a murmur: "Professor Novak and I have a friendship of long standing, yes. And I had a letter from him last week. He spoke of you, Lord Winchester, with great affection, and made me aware of your difficult situation. I believe I can offer a solution."

"I don't understand," said Dean. Had Castiel really told this woman they'd been lovers? His sense of propriety revolted at the notion—not only had Castiel broken a confidence, gently bred ladies shouldn't even hear of such things, friendship notwithstanding.

"Let me explain, then, but in a more private setting," said Miss Middleton. "Would you like to promenade in the gardens with me?"

It seemed that Miss Middleton was determined to confound him; naturally, Dean had slipped away into the odd hedge maze with a female companion, but certainly never at her instigation. He was far too taken aback to protest, however, and when she nudged him firmly towards the door to the Richardsons' grounds, he nodded swiftly, and stumbled outside in a daze.

She joined him a decorous moment later, found him fidgeting in the courtyard, staring up at the half-full moon. "Shall we?" she asked, taking his elbow and steering him away from the din of the ball.

The night was balmy, the Richardsons' gardens resplendent under the moonlight, yet Dean scarcely noticed; though Miss Middleton had slipped her arm demurely through his, he had no illusions about who controlled the situation. She matched his stride with ease despite their height difference, moving with purpose along the flagstones until they reached a bench tucked away under a rosebush, where she sat and smiled up at him.

"I would like to make you an unorthodox proposal of marriage, Lord Winchester," she said. At this, Dean sat down rather precipitously, suddenly unsure whether his knees could be trusted. Undaunted, Miss Middleton barreled on: "I should make it clear, before you consider my offer, that my family is in trade—was, rather, as my parents perished last autumn when their carriage overturned. Upon their death I inherited the whole of the Middleton Stockyards, one of the largest cattle concerns in all of Kansas City. I am, to put it bluntly, a very wealthy woman, if you are willing to overlook the source of my fortune."

She fixed Dean with an inquiring gaze until he stammered out, "I would not reject you on such grounds alone, Miss Middleton, but any man in London would be eager to wed so lovely an heiress. Why would you come to me?"

"Because my requirements in a spouse are somewhat unusual, my lord. I have been searching for a husband who will not meddle unduly in my personal affairs, and from what Castiel tells me, you would be well served by a wife who extends you the same courtesy."

"'Personal affairs'? Do you mean, er, what do you mean by that?" Did this extraordinary woman intend to suggest that mutual fidelity would not be required? He had heard of such marriages in society—couples who amused themselves with lovers with the full consent of the other party—but had never thought to find himself in one at a lady's suggestion.

"I mean, Lord Winchester, that I prefer the company of women." She laughed as Dean's mouth dropped open. "Oh dear, have I shocked you? Did it never occur to you that women could take pleasure in each other?"

"Not outside of illicit engravings, no," Dean admitted, feeling naive in the extreme. "Forgive me, Miss Middleton, but this is the most singular conversation I've had in my entire life. If I may ask, why do you seek to marry at all?"

"Spoken like a man," she said ruefully. "The world at large looks askance on a single woman, especially one with her own property. I've been fending off proposals from every corner since my parents died, and it's only a matter of time before a disgruntled suitor decides to set his cap for my business rather than my person. I need a partner, my lord, someone to render me respectable in the eyes of society but who would not take issue with my outside entanglements. And I would do the same for you, naturally. Besides," she said with a radiant smile, "I would make an excellent duchess."

"Certainly a formidable one," said Dean. He couldn't deny this was a brilliant scheme; Miss Middleton was in no danger of developing a tendre for him, nor of judging him for his secret leanings. And he was envious of her self-confidence, to be sure—perhaps with her at his side, he could throw off the yoke of his father's expectations. If not those of his future dukedom, not entirely. "Forgive me for being indelicate, Miss Middleton, but there is the question of legacy. A mariage blanc cannot produce an heir."

At this, she fell silent for a moment, and then spoke quietly: "I have known since I was a schoolgirl that I loved women instead of men, Lord Winchester. Yet I have also known that I want children of my own, and that the aid of a man will be required to beget them. I would—we would—in time, I hope that we could become friendly enough to approach the task with a minimum of unpleasantness." She shot him a glance that was almost shy. "That is, if you're willing."

Dean's eyes strayed unbidden to her décolletage before he collected himself to reply. "It would be a honor, Miss Middleton," he said at last, "and entirely your decision. For all we know, we shall loathe each other before the year is out."

"'Shall'?" she repeated, a smile playing at the corners of her lips. "Then you accept?"

"How could I refuse?" he asked.

"Excellent!" She extended her hand, not for a kiss but for a handshake. "If we're to be betrothed, my lord, you must call me Celeste."

He clasped her hand firmly, whole being flooded with relief. "Dean," he told her. “Please call me Dean.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Twas pointed out by my spouse that Victorian!Charlie should _really_ be dropping 1880s pop culture references, but all I could think of was the assassination of President Garfield, so.


	8. Chapter 8

The nuptials of The Right Honorable The Viscount Winchester and Miss Celeste Middleton, of the Kansas City Middletons, were celebrated with alacrity; less than a month after shaking hands on their engagement, they stood together in the chapel at the ducal manor, repeating time-worn vows before a bishop. The bride was resplendent in a Worth gown of snow-white silk trimmed with moss green lace, a tiara of peridots and diamonds atop her cinnamon-colored tresses; she'd given Dean a matching stickpin to wear in his cravat, its verdant twinkle relieving the monotony of his black-and-white attire. The ceremony went by in a trice, and before Dean knew it, he was slipping his late mother's wedding ring onto Celeste's finger, barely concealing a grin when she gave him a surreptitious wink.

They spent their wedding night in Dean's bedroom, drinking cognac and playing piquet. Celeste won back the stickpin.

*******

_June 25, 18—  
Campbell House_

_My dear Castiel—_

_You must allow me to convey my most ardent gratitude for your role in the arrangement of my recent marriage. Lord Winchester is a good and kind man, and I have little doubt of our future happiness. And while I may not find his form as wholly pleasing as some others may, I quite agree about his eyes—the hue brings to mind a meadow at the first flush of springtime, lovely indeed. We have left London to set up housekeeping at the estate my lord inherited from his mother, Lady Campbell—do visit at your earliest convenience._

_I remain, as ever, your own Celeste (now Viscountess Winchester)_

Beneath Celeste's finishing-school hand, a scribbled postscript:

_If my eyes are like a meadow yours are blue as the cloudless sky above it. Please come, Castiel._

_Yours &c., Dean_

Castiel read the letter in his Spartan rooms at the university, a half-smile on his lips and a jittery warmth spreading through the pit of his stomach and parts south. The plot he'd hatched on the lonesome voyage back to New York had come off well, it seemed. In one fell swoop, he'd helped his dear Celeste to a suitable match, expiated some of his guilt for Dean's father's wrathful ultimatum, and ensured that he and Dean would remain in communication. Someday, Castiel would be able to see him again. To touch him again.

Their Dorset idyll was all he could think about as he traveled home. On the long train journey back to Evanston, the rhythm of the rails became a chant: _Dean-I-miss-you, Dean-I-miss-you,_ pounding steadily through his brain. The man who'd thrown caution to the winds and seduced a peer felt a stranger; instead, he pined for Dean like a schoolgirl. Or rather, as schoolgirls were supposed to pine—he could not help but remember Celeste as she was when they were students together, and know that that girl would disdain him as weak and sentimental. Once, she had corrected their Latin professor on his declension; knowing herself to be in the right, she refused to back down, no matter how he glowered or fumed under his breath about ill-informed misses. Castiel had been awed by her self-possession, and after she understood he was not attempting to court her, they'd become fast friends.

Castiel chuckled at the memory. Then, he carefully removed the globe from the kerosene lamp, turned the flame higher, and fed the letter into the fire.

*******

It would be almost spring before Castiel was able to make a return voyage. The day fixed for his arrival found Dean and Celeste in their favorite parlor: she read in an armchair with her feet tucked up under her gown, while he attempted not to pace and failed utterly. 

He turned at the end of his restless circuit and scowled at his wife. "Your composure is most provoking, my lady," he told her.

She shrugged. "I'm not awaiting my lover," she said, "simply an old friend. I do look forward to seeing Castiel, my lord, apologies if I manage to sit still while doing so."

"Humph," said Dean. "Were you a truly loving wife, you would feign anxiety to keep me company."

"Alas, then I suppose it's up to the attic with me, my lord. I do hope your second wife is more tractable." Celeste smiled sweetly when Dean laughed despite himself, before returning to her book.

Thus far, Dean had found marriage rather more jolly than expected; while he had always hoped for a harmonious match, he'd never conceived of friendship, that his wife would be his equal in wit or his superior in intellect. Celeste had informed him the latter showed a failure of imagination on his part.

Nor did their lack of physical intimacy bother him, though he remained aware of her beauty. She'd taken lately to joining him in his bedroom to chat before breakfast; often on these occasions, she was still in her nightdress without a robe to conceal her form, yet he'd felt no stirrings of desire. He rather hoped he could rise to the occasion when they set about begetting an heir. 

In the meantime, his private life had become epistolary, as he and Castiel carried on a clandestine correspondence. Sometimes their letters were brief, merely a catalogue of quotidia: the William Morris wallpaper Dean had selected for his study, Castiel's identification of a new subspecies of ancient cephalopod. Others related scenes from the past, filling in vague outlines that they might learn each other's histories to the full. And some letters—the ones Dean kept inside his mattress, because he could not bear to burn them like the rest—that lingered in describing touches yearned for and kisses craved, every passion they would indulge when Fortune brought them together again. 

Castiel's last letter was even now close, concealed within the lid of his pocket watch: a plain-spoken declaration of love.

The designated hour arrived at last, and then a servant ushered Castiel into the parlor; he bent low over Celeste's hand, extended his own for Dean to clasp. Dean knew he was being spoken to, that he was speaking in turn, but all he heard was the thud of his heart, battering against his ribs like a panicked songbird against the bars of its cage.

The fog did not lift until Celeste had dismissed the servant and closed the door. At once, Castiel slid both arms around Dean's waist and kissed him; Dean parted his lips with a sigh, mind suddenly crystal clear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Celeste's [wedding dress](http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-O28h88eHqwM/T9jPDLlOeuI/AAAAAAAAGJk/MnTmMjgNeOg/s1600/12Evening+Dress++Charles+Fredrick+Worth,+1861++The+Chicago+History+Museum.jpg) Thanks to [Maeleene](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Maeleene/pseuds/Maeleene), who did the legwork.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This final chapter is dedicated to [wellacquaintedeyes](http://archiveofourown.org/users/wellacquaintedeyes/pseuds/wellacquaintedeyes), because her office was full of jerks this morning.

After their passionate greeting, Dean was not able to kiss Castiel again for six hours, which seemed nearly as long as the previous interval of months. Celeste had parted them with a decorous cough and said, "I do hate to be a bother, but I insist the both of you pay me the attention I deserve until we retire to our separate bedchambers."

"You seem to have wedded an utter harpy, Dean," said Castiel with a scowl at Celeste that rather resembled a smirk.

"Isn't she marvelous?" said Dean, gazing fondly at his wife.

"Don't talk about me as if I'm not in the room, gentlemen," Celeste chided them both. "Although thank you, I _am_ quite marvelous."

"Absolutely," said Dean, "and modest as well."

"Humility is unbecoming in bright women," Celeste said. "Possibly in bright men too, but I daresay I've never met a humble one. No, not even you, Castiel, so don't give me that look."

"I deny giving you any kind of look, my _dear_ Lady Winchester," said Castiel. "I find it difficult to look away from your ravishing spouse, to be perfectly honest." It was true; while he'd stepped back at Celeste's prompting, his eyes kept drifting back to Dean, as if afraid he might vanish.

Celeste rolled her eyes heavenward. "It's as bad as all that with you two? You must be an excellent correspondent, Castiel." She took Dean's elbow. "My lord, in the absence of a bucket of ice water, would you mind terribly amusing yourself until dinner so we can actually hold a conversation?"

"She's right, Dean," said Castiel ruefully.

"I can't leave you in here alone with my wife!" Dean protested. "What will the servants think?"

"I don't know, what will they think when I follow you to bed?" Castiel asked. "You can hardly claim to stand on propriety, darling."

Sighing, Dean gave way before the endearment, so familiar from Castiel's letters but previously unheard. "Very well then, have your precious conversation. I'll go to the stables, take the new mare over a hedge or two. You should see her, Castiel—black as coal and graceful as a gazelle."

*******

Untold eons later, in Dean's estimation—after an interminable dinner Castiel and Celeste spent discussing baseball, that bastardised version of cricket of which their countrymen were so fond; after he trounced them at billiards in quick succession; after Dean and Celeste played their nightly game of cards and she went to her room next door with an admonition not to keep her awake—then, as Dean undressed, Castiel knocked on his door and slipped inside. 

Tossing his shirt aside, Dean crowded Castiel against the wall, kissing him deeply and fumbling at his clothing. He squeaked in surprise when Castiel immediately grabbed for his cock, yanking open the fall of his trousers to reach within. "I want to do this quickly," Castiel panted in his ear, "quickly to start, and then slowly in a little while, when we've rested."

"Quickly, then," Dean agreed breathlessly. Abandoning his efforts at Castiel's cravat, he slid one hand down over his linen-clad chest, down between his legs. Castiel gasped, hips arching off the wall to push into the touch; when Dean unfastened his trousers and took hold of him, Castiel moaned loudly enough for Dean to hastily cover his mouth. "My wife has requested that we not disturb her slumber," he said.

Castiel responded by raising one eyebrow and licking Dean's palm, moving it back to wrap around his cock again. "I should bring you to hunt fossils with me in Wyoming, then. With no one around for miles, we can be as loud as we please."

"Shall we leave tomorrow?" Dean said. Castiel's laugh turned to a gasp as Dean nipped at his jaw, a muffled moan when Dean tugged his collar aside to lick at the hollow of his throat.

It was, indeed, over quickly. Castiel spilled over Dean's fist in moments, face buried in his shoulder; before Dean knew what was happening, Castiel had dropped to his knees to take Dean's cock in his mouth. Biting at the heel of his hand to stifle a cry, Dean let his eyes fall shut as he climaxed, constellations sparking across the back of his eyelids.

When he opened them, Castiel had not yet arisen, but was gazing up at him with mussed hair and a besotted smile. "What?" asked Dean, abruptly self-conscious.

"You are extremely good-looking, Lord Winchester," said Castiel. "I'd feared my fantasies while we were apart would have embellished your beauty, but if anything they fell short."  
"Flatterer," Dean muttered, cheeks coloring. He offered both hands to help Castiel to standing and kissed him again, tasting his own seed in the crevices of Castiel's mouth. "I find you quite beautiful as well," he said shyly when he pulled away. "Take off your clothes and come to bed?"

With a nod, Castiel disrobed, reclining next to Dean when he was naked. Kisses that had been greedy turned gentle in their lassitude; hands roamed each other's bodies, learning once more the cartography of desire. In due course, the fires of lust rekindled; Castiel stroked Dean's stiffening cock and pressed his body the length of Dean's back, rolling his own hips forward against Dean's arse. "I want to fuck you, darling," he purred into Dean's ear, and nibbled at the lobe.

"Yes," said Dean, the syllable barely audible but no less certain for it. "Please, Castiel."

Castiel left him for a moment to retrieve a jar of Vaseline from the dressing table; Dean rolled to his stomach, flinched away from the first prod of a slick finger at his arse. "Shh," Castiel said, brushing his lips across the back of Dean's neck. "Let me in, I won't hurt you."

"I know," said Dean, "I trust you," and drew a shuddering breath as Castiel's finger slid into him gradually, the sensation odd but not unwelcome. "Please," Dean said again.

When Castiel finally pressed his cock inside, Dean's body made little protest, any pain drowned out by an overwhelming feeling of fulfillment. Castiel whimpered and thrust slowly, until Dean pushed back to meet him, tentative; then, with a sound half-sob, half-moan, Castiel moved more urgently, ragged breath hot on Dean's skin, one hand gripping Dean's upper arm as if he would leave the shape of his fingers behind. "I love you," Dean murmured as he came for a second time; "I love you," whispered Castiel, and followed in his wake.

*******

Dean's father died of an apoplexy in the autumn. As the old Duke's coffin was lowered into the ground, the new Duke burst into tears; society praised his filial piety, never guessing his grief was intermingled with joy. The following year, when Dean traveled to the American West without his wife, Baron Crowley was heard to remark that perhaps he found Professor Novak more congenial company, but his insinuations were roundly dismissed at the news of Celeste's confinement.

In the wilds of Wyoming, however, Dean proved to be very loud indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I loved writing this story so much, I decided there has to be a sequel! It will be Charlie-focused, about her falling for a comely suffragist while she and Dean set about conceiving a child.
> 
> Also, this chapter features perhaps the silliest canon reference I've yet to make. Did you catch it?


End file.
